


my galaxy of words tells stories for only you

by memecity2000



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bokuto Koutarou & Kuroo Tetsurou are Bros, Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, POV Akaashi Keiji, akaashi is a secret simp, more like 1+5+1, mostly during canon, slight angst, snarky akaashi keiji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memecity2000/pseuds/memecity2000
Summary: Akaashi’s heart kindles as it always does in response to Bokuto’s affection, but the frustration of misunderstanding burns hotter than the comfort of the nonchalant reassurance. Akaashi doesn’t know how to make him understand, but he needs Bokuto to realize that this “I love you,” whispered under the cold Christmas snowfall in the same tonality and sincerity as always, is holistically different from the millions of “I love you”s they’d exchanged in the past.Because Bokuto and Akaashi have always been the kind of people to uncover the world’s wonders through each other’s genius. Bokuto is bold print and action, while Akaashi is the subtlety of nuance and connotation, and their differing perspectives allow them to see all the beauty in the universe together.Akaashi can't think of a single reason why he should be content with justknowingthis, so he's desperately scrambling in his brain for some way, any way to explain to Bokuto how much he loves him.5 times Akaashi quotes literature at Bokuto and 1 time Bokuto reciprocates
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56





	1. 0. first love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to finish this in September for Bokuto's birthday and this fic was supposed to be like 5k words in total but I'm terrible at being concise and I wanted to read all the books I used the quotes from before I posted the fic.
> 
> ...I gave up after 5 but that's 5 more than I thought I'd make it through. 
> 
> This was supposed to be the first part of the first "quote" but it turned out to be too long so I split it into the prologue to give a lil context on Akaashi's literature boner which later evolves to be his Bokuto boner.

It’s the summer after Akaashi’s thirteenth birthday when he joins his first book club. 

Technically, his membership is unofficial. He never actually contributes to the concoction of ideas extracted from the book of the week; the lilting melodies of voices that drift from Akaashi’s sitting room never even acknowledge him crouching in the shadows of his staircase, eavesdropping on their conversation. 

Still, Akaashi indulges greedily in the fruits of their discussion, swathing himself in the stories they magically unfurl from their recounts of every old, worn-out page. He listens raptly to the tones that break apart nuances hidden in fanatical worlds, sometimes sharp and jumbled in an amalgamation of disagreement, and other times warm and agreeable in a hum of unity. 

He doesn’t really understand most of what they’re saying; terms like “anaphora,” “microcosm,” and “synecdoche” are lost on a brain that’s just learning to dissect symbolism in _Kokoro,_ but week after week, the golden threads of text that unfold mysticality and friendship, victory and hardship, characters and their journeys, weave an inescapable net that hooks Akaashi and reels him in on the current called literature before he can even realize he’s caught. 

When the days start to grow shorter and the sky darkens early, Akaashi trades a baseball card for a clippable book light through Mori Middle School’s student-run underground black market. Yamada Katsuo from Class 2-2 grabs the baseball card with an eyebrow wiggle as Akaashi takes the extended book light.

“What kinds of stuff are you looking at after dark, Akaashi?” Yamada insinuates, voice smarmy and teasing. 

Akaashi grips the little bend of white plastic and ignores the question, turning to leave. But Yamada is determined to get an answer, hopping over a desk in front of Akaashi and sticking his face into Akaashi’s space.

“Naughty things?” he simpers, wiggling his eyebrows again.

Akaashi doesn’t bother to school the irritated expression on his face.

“How many times do I need to bleach this thing to cleanse it of _your_ midnight activities, Yamada-san?” he bites back cooly. 

Yamada cackles loudly and claps Akaashi on the back. 

"As many times as you want, but it probably won’t kill all the gross that’s on that thing.”

Akaashi can’t stop his face from twisting in disgust as he dangles the little bulb from his fingertips. He considers maybe just writing in the dark.

But despite its questionable history, the book light manages to become more of a regular in Akaashi’s life than most of his friends that winter, clipped to the covers of his books as he attends book club meetings just after sunset. Its flickering glow is just bright enough for Akaashi to scratch a few rudimentary notes in the margins of the pages as he ducks in his corner and strains to hear the flow of conversation in the next room. Sweat sticks his curls to his forehead on warm days and his fingers turn numb on cold ones, but Akaashi doesn’t notice, enraptured by the shy narrations coaxed out from between thick leather shells by the talented minds in his sitting room. He starts to scribble down his own thoughts before the book club returns every week, and indulges in the tsunami of tingling pride that crests when someone mentions a thought Akaashi doesn’t need to scramble to write down because it’s already pressed between the pages of his book. 

His birthday passes in December, and he spends it with his head buried inside of Osamu Dazai’s _No Longer Human,_ preparing notes for the next book club meeting.

Small white blossoms from the spring bloom are falling into Akaashi’s hair during lunch when Ishikawa Hayato picks up the shiny laminated hardcover of _Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe_ Akaashi borrowed from the library and flips it around in inquiry. Akaashi’s contaminated book light bounces indignantly a few times but keeps its stubborn hold.

“What’s this?”

Akaashi blinks. 

“A book.”

Ishikawa throws him an exasperated look. “I know _what_ it is. I mean, what’s it for? This isn’t anything we read in class.”

Akaashi thinks that if Ishikawa had meant “What is it for?” that’s what he should’ve asked, but he bites back his retort in favor of thinking of an acceptable answer to the question. Akaashi doesn’t really want to explain why he hides under the stairs of his own house and gives himself scoliosis and astigmatism while trying to secretly crash his mom’s book club every Tuesday, so he settles on, 

“I like to read,” for the sake of both simplicity and his dignity. 

Ishikawa hums to acknowledge Akaashi’s answer while flipping through his book. Colored post-its litter the pages with Akaashi's detailed notes, definitions and reactions, but Ishikawa moves through it too quickly to absorb anything. 

“Is this romance?” he asks, eyes dancing over the summary printed under the book’s plastic jacket. He perks up, head swinging to look at Akaashi. “Is this why all the girls like you? Because you read the same things?”

Akaashi pulls his tupperware out of his bag and sets it on the bench in front of him. He supposes some part of Ari and Dante’s journey could be considered romantic, but their struggles to accept their culture and find individuality while navigating their relationship seem too significant to Akaashi to definitively categorize the book as a fourteen-year-old’s view on “romance.” There is a whole world of complexity in how Ari and Dante each overcome their obstacles; the juxtaposition in Ari and Dante’s approach to their socially unconventional relationship–Ari’s reserved and hesitant while Dante’s bold and unapologetic– stirs up an infrequent storm of emotions in Akaashi, and he’s unwilling to lump the book in the same category as Yamada’s pornography magazines. 

It’s outdated to assume girls read romance anyway, although Akaashi gets the feeling Ishikawa might be thinking about a _specific_ female. 

But Ishikawa doesn’t really seem like he cares too much about Akaashi’s analysis, ulterior motives and all, so Akaashi decides on the simplest answer. 

“No,” he replies, pulling a fork out of his bag.

"Lame," Ishikawa sighs, and as predicted, glances to look at one of their female classmates who Akaashi has the unfortunate privilege of knowing Ishikawa’s had a crush on for _months_ now. 

"Kimiko always talks about how much she likes those and this," he waves the hardcover around in the air, “would have been the perfect way to impress her.”

Akaashi forces himself not to roll his eyes, his fingers busying themselves with unpacking his lunch and picking up an onigiri. He brushes away a blossom that lands in his fruit.

"You didn't even read it, Ishikawa-san." 

Ishikawa throws his head back dramatically, hands springing into the air in front of him. "Oh I know," he groans, eyeing Akaashi. "But you could explain it to me if I asked, couldn't you?"

Akaashi shoves a corner of his onigiri into his mouth. He _could._

Ishikawa looks back down at Akaashi's book for a few more dejected beats before glancing at Kimiko again. His expression twists into something Akaashi has to physically repress a sigh at when he sees.

"What if I _wrote_ her a romance novel?" he asks, eyes searching Akaashi's face a little too eagerly for his reaction.

Akaashi wrinkles his nose.

"You scored a 38 on your Writing exam. I wouldn’t." 

"Akaashi!" Ishikawa cries, clutching his heart.

"No offense," Akaashi adds belatedly.

"I'll forgive you if you give me some of your food," Ishiwaka fake-sniffles, reaching for a grape without waiting for Akaashi's answer. He grants Akaashi a glorious moment of silence while he chews but then starts moaning again as soon as his mouth is empty.

"What am I supposed to do about Kimiko then?"

Akaashi swallows his second bite of onigiri. 

"Accept that she's never going to love you?"

"Akaashi!" Ishikawa groans. “I really want to impress her!” 

Akaashi jams another sigh back into his throat with his last piece of onigiri. The breath of air crinkles against the seaweed in his mouth and he chews slowly to stall from answering. He’s only had this conversation 50 times already. Once more is fine.

Ishikawa flips the book open to a random page, this time taking the time to read through the text, stopping at passages with Akaashi’s annotations. It’s a particularly eventful page, painted with paper rainbows marking Akaashi’s live reactions and the analyses he’d overheard from his mom’s college friends speaking in the sitting room. One sentence in the book has a note so long the chain of sticky notes dangles lower than the bottom of the page in a cascade of neon colors.

Ishikawa reads the sentence out loud. “‘I wondered what that was like, to hold someone’s hand. I bet you could sometimes find all of the mysteries of the universe in someone’s hand.’”

Akaashi freezes, his second onigiri halfway up to his mouth as he remembers the contents of his annotations on that quote. He remembers the discussion his book club had about it. He remembers his freezing toes, the pressure of the wall against his back, a voice in the next room dissecting the beauty of Dante and Ari’s relationship, and how they discovered and unraveled more about the universe through each other. He remembers the compulsion that forced his hand to continue moving after he finished writing the comments he stole from the book club. He remembers scribbling words on the page that tentatively spelled out his desires to experience that kind of connection. To have someone who uncovers parts of the world Akaashi can’t see himself in the same way that Dante and Ari do for each other. 

Because there’s a reason why Akaashi renews _Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe_ long after the book club has moved on to another story. Why Ari and Dante’s galaxy in particular is spun together with starry words and swirling emotion that grip Akaashi’s heartstrings and refuse to let go. Why he’s turned down every girl’s harmless, juvenile affection with a “Sorry, I can’t feel the same way.” 

No one ever reads as much into his wording as Akaashi does, but he chooses “can’t” over “don’t” for a reason. And he wishes so badly to be Dante, unashamed of himself and who he loves, but Akaashi is so scared, terrified of the crushing pressure of society’s standards that he sees no option but to be Ari, shrouded in the shadows and struggling with self-acceptance. 

And he isn’t ready for anyone to find out yet. 

Akaashi watches him in horror, icy fingers stalled by his sides, but Ishikawa hasn’t even glanced at Akaashi’s notes. He just looks at Akaashi with wide eyes and whispers, “This is perfect!”

Akaashi is confused for a moment, still lightheaded and reeling from the fact that his notes almost just betrayed his newest and most difficult realization. Ishikawa barrels on, unnoticing. 

“Dude, what if I could spew some sappy romantic quotes when I talked to her,” he says, stumbling over his words in excitement. “I dunno, it might seem a bit lame but I think Kimiko would be impressed since she likes them so much.”

Akaashi shrugs, still a bit too relieved to come up with a snarky remark. Kimiko does seem like she would like it, considering she’d confessed to Akaashi a few months back on the basis that she’d caught him reading one of her favorite romance novels.

“Dude, maybe this could work!” Ishikawa says, voice rising as his eyes light up in excitement. “Maybe you can lend me this book–”

Oh no. That is absolutely not happening.

“It’s not a romantic novel,” Akaashi interjects, trying to take the book back casually even though he wants nothing more than to rip it out of Ishikawa’s hands and bury it at the bottom of his gym bag. Ishikawa doesn’t seem to suspect anything odd, just wilts a little in disappointment, his smile dimming a notch. Akaashi curses himself for noticing. 

“I can lend you an actual romance with my annotations tomorrow,” he offers. The other books in his collection of book club novels don’t have any obviously incriminating material.

Ishikawa’s smile brightens again. “Yeah, that’d be great thanks!”

Akaashi stuffs _Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe_ back into his gym bag as quickly as he can, shoving his volleyball aside to make room. He’s relieved that he’s got some more time to figure himself out before anyone else knows, but he uses more force than normal when he’s packing his clothes back into place, squashing the fabric down with vigor and yanking it over the book. His nail bangs against a metal zipper and he pulls it back quickly, finger smarting as he grips it hard to stop the pain. He doesn’t want to or even know how to deal with people finding out about his sexuality, he can’t pinpoint how they’d react, but a part of him wants so desperately to come out and be proud of who he is. Why can’t he let it overcome his fear? 

“Akaashi,” Ishikawa’s voice interrupts Akaashi’s self-destructive thoughts.

Akaashi straightens to look at him, zipping up his bag. Ishikawa’s smile is gone now, replaced by an inquisitive twist of his lips that prickles the back of Akaashi’s neck. 

“You think you’d ever write a romance for anyone? Or recite poetry, or quote books for them?” Ishikawa asks, his gaze curious. “Cuz I know you definitely can with all those books you read.” 

Akaashi huffs out a laugh. He could. He doesn’t have an eidetic memory, but it feels like he does when he wraps himself in the comfort of a book’s creation and absorbs the tales it tells until the words are burned into his skin like a tattoo. He imagines a life where he lays with someone in a twist of cool sheets and warm blankets and shares with them all the worlds that are mapped in the lines and colors on his skin. But he can never see a face when he looks over. He’s never had anyone he wants to be there. 

“No,” Akaashi replies, almost immediately.

Ishikawa looks at him for a long second and Akaashi starts to feel a twinge of fear creep up his fingertips. He twists them, fidgeting, trying to drive away the cold that’s threatening to rush up his hands again.

But Ishikawa just smiles widely again, flashing Akaashi a row of clean white teeth and declares earnestly, “I hope you meet someone that changes your mind.”

Though his face doesn’t change, Akaashi is surprised. He had let himself believe it was impossible, and imprisoned the idea in shackles of fear. But Ishikawa’s smile is heartfelt and strong, and it promises Akaashi his support, uncaring of his preferences. Akaashi ducks his head, hiding the ghost of his smile. 

For the first time, he allows himself to hope for the same. 

Summer rolls around a few months later and Ishikawa returns Akaashi’s worn copy of _The Tale of Genji_ , pages thick with marks and notations. He flashes Akaashi the same toothy smile as he always does, but this time it’s accompanied by the shy grin of a pretty girl standing next to him, arm looped through his. 

Akaashi visits his opthamologist at the end of the summer when his mom catches him squinting to read a road sign in the car. Glasses and contacts for volleyball are added to his daily wardrobe. He considers asking Yamada for his baseball card back because his diseased book light made Akaashi sick _and_ blind, but decides against it at the end. He’s way more of a volleyball guy anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only pre-canon part and I wanted to introduce Akaashi's book love before I turned him into a big loser who quotes literature to his crush, but it honestly turned out a lil more angsty than I thought it would. Unfortunately it's been a long time since I've been in middle school, so I apologize if the representation is a little flawed lol. 
> 
> I also don't like it when people make Akaashi's only personality trait "simp" though because I think he's super snarky sometimes and really never hesitates to call people out on their bs so I tried my best to make his interactions align with how I perceived his personality. 
> 
> I did get around to reading Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe and I highly recommend it :)!


	2. 1. fall again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Akaashi quotes literature at Bokuto, it's entirely by accident. He tries to keep his worlds as separate as possible, but all his inhibitions seem to malfunction when Bokuto's around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I apologize for taking SO long to update, this part of the fic ended up like 4k words longer than it was supposed to because I'm terrible at being concise. Hopefully all the background for Akaashi's book boner and Bokuto boner has been laid down so the next chapters will be shorter and easier to write. 
> 
> This is barely a 5+1 anymore but I hope y'all enjoy :)! The "quote" part of it is honestly kinda crack-y because I wanted to pay homage to the quote I saw that inspired me to write this fic but I think Akaashi would rather cut out his tongue than say the things in the quote to Bokuto willingly so I had to kinda make it an accidental situation. 
> 
> I do think it's hilarious that everyone canonically thinks Akaashi is really weird because he just says the randomest things so that's why he can get away with quoting literal books without anyone noticing. 
> 
> I also tried to make this canon compliant so if the dialogue appeared in the hq manga it should be more or less the same (+/- a few words)! I changed a few minor facts to tailor it to my fic but hopefully there's nothing glaringly wrong to their relationship ('cause it was characterized SO well in manga and I don't wanna screw anything up!)

Bokuto Koutarou barrels into Akaashi’s life just after his fifteenth birthday. 

He’s at a crossroads that December, contemplating which high school to attend next spring, and unfortunately, the bitterness of the winter snowfall keeps everyone inside and provides Akaashi with ample time to overthink. Fukurodani Academy and Suzumeoka have both extended their welcome and given him a recommendation, but Akaashi’s overanalysis of his work-volleyball balance holds him back from making a final decision.

Fukurodani’s volleyball team is considerably better–they’ve gone to Nationals for the past six years straight–and the literature department at both schools are roughly equal in standing, but Akaashi wonders if joining a school with such a competitive volleyball team would be a distraction. He’s dedicated himself to studying literature and he really doesn’t know if he likes volleyball enough to let its demands interfere with his academics.

Ishikawa huffs out a laugh when Akaashi tells him this after volleyball practice one day.

“A few high schools are playing practice tournaments today at Fukurodani. We should go check it out!” he suggests. “You can decide then whether you like it enough to continue volleyball there.” 

Akaashi fiddles with his fingers and considers the idea. The deadline to commit to a school is approaching and he’s already been torn in this decision for too long, so watching Fukurodani play might help him confirm his choice. It’s probably his best course of action right now, even if he dislikes the idea of having to trek through snow to get to Fukurodani’s campus. 

“Yeah, sure,” he accepts, and starts shrugging on layers to prepare himself for the cold.

Akaashi is zipping up his volleyball jacket over his sweatshirt when he remembers that Ishikawa has already committed to Shinzen and gains nothing except soggy boots and frozen feet by accompanying Akaashi to Fukurodani. 

“Why are you coming, Ishikawa-san?” Akaashi asks him when he finds Ishikawa lacing up his boots by the door.

Ishikawa looks up at Akaashi and flashes him a grin. “I heard Fukurodani’s ace Bokuto Koutarou is a special kind of insane. I want to witness it in person.”

Akaashi exhales quietly as he steps out of the gym, Ishikawa following closely behind him. The winter chill stings his cheeks immediately, and Akaashi pulls his scarf closer to his neck and yanks up his collar to conserve his body heat. He shivers anyway, and gives up on trying to preserve his warmth as he wades through the snow toward Fukurodani.

Bokuto Koutarou must be some kind of exceptional to be worth this journey. 

He is, Akaashi discovers quickly. 

Fukurodani’s pristine gym walls and soft golden lighting beckon to him, whispering promises of a suitable home, but they’re far outshone by Bokuto’s blinding radiance that opens its arms and charges at Akaashi full force, daring him to come and explore the world of possibilities they can unlock together. Akaashi falls blindly into his embrace and thinks fleetingly that it feels a lot like rediscovering the universe of mystery, excitement and beauty a book can hold for the first time.

Because in the moments that one of Bokuto’s spiked volleyballs smashes into the floor and leaves a trail of smoke, dust and gas in its wake, or when he jumps and the glittering white lights behind him illuminate the wide stretch of his shoulders, he’s nothing less than a star, and Akaashi is dragged helplessly into his orbit, a satellite recruited into his galaxy.

He finally sees it too, in the midst of a volleyball game of all times, why Kimiko inspires Ishikawa to read romance novels and in quiet moments, murmur to her the parts of them that remind him of her. For the first time Akaashi understands what it’s like to have someone who moves passionate words from his typically unwilling lips, and makes him want to weave together threads of shared experiences into a lifetime of adventure. 

Because Bokuto Koutarou is the kind of protagonist in a novel that touches the lives of everyone he meets until they can’t help but root for him. He burns so brilliantly it’s impossible not to be captivated by his light, and Akaashi wants nothing more than to be part of his journey. 

When he accepts his recommendation that night, Akaashi has a passing thought that as stunning of a volleyball player as Bokuto is, he would have an illustrious career as Fukurodani’s official mascot. 

It’s April when Akaashi finds himself back in the gentle glow of Fukurodani’s gym. Banners line the walls above the mostly empty bleachers and Akaashi’s eyes hang over the still of Bokuto’s spiked hair and bright grin for only a touch too long as he listens to the coach detail how tryouts are going to work. The rhythmic slam of volleyballs hitting the back wall of the gym is familiar and comfortable, but the electric buzz of anticipation is different from his practices in middle school. He’d gotten used to mediocrity there. He never wanted to be more than just good enough for his team and never had anyone who expected him to shine. 

But exceptional is the standard at Fukurodani, Coach Yamiji explains. Their volleyball team is almost already complete and they’re not looking for players who are just “good enough.”

“I’m sorry to say that we’ll be cutting most, if not all of you this year,” he apologizes to Akaashi and the other hopefuls. “But we will only accept people who can already keep up with the rest of the team.” 

Akaashi isn’t really used to aiming to be the best, but he already knew before coming to tryouts that playing alongside Fukurodani’s star would require all the energy and effort he has to offer. Unlike the other players at tryouts, he’s ready to lay all his cards on the table, and the difference in their preparation shows when they scrimmage that afternoon. 

Akaashi feels a sort of unprecedented pride when he sees his name on the roster as the only new member of Fukurodani’s men volleyball team the next morning.

Bokuto Koutarou addresses Akaashi directly after their first team practice. 

Akaashi is robotically pushing a mop over the floor in the half-lit gymnasium. His body is exhausted; practice at Fukurodani is at a completely different level of physical vigor than even the hardest days at his middle school, but he feels energized by a kind of ambition that he never felt at Mori.

“Hey, hey Akashi-kun,” Bokuto’s voice greets from behind Akaashi. 

Akaashi startles from his thoughts, not expecting to be directly addressed by any of his seniors, much less Fukurodani’s ace, on the first day. 

“It’s Akaashi,” he corrects, stopping his stride and turning to face Bokuto’s voice. 

Bokuto is staring at Akaashi, honey eyes round and two-toned hair flopping to the side along with the tilt of his head. An expression of faux innocence is plastered all over his face.

“Aka-aaaa-ashi, you mind practicing spikes with me for a little bit?” he requests casually.

Bokuto’s wide eyes and forcibly light tone make Akaashi question the nonchalance of his invitation immediately, and his skepticism is further confirmed by Konoha’s vigorous arm flapping behind Bokuto, forming X’s over and over again. While he’s still not sure why the idea of hitting a few extra spikes with Bokuto incites such a viscerally negative reaction, Akaashi figures that Bokuto would benefit more from practicing with the third-year starting setter anyway, and decides the safe option is to suggest that instead. 

“Yeah, sure,” he agrees.

Akaashi blinks, wondering when his mouth and brain decided to suddenly not cooperate with each other. Behind Bokuto, Konoha looks destroyed, like he just watched Akaashi agree to eat Bokuto’s toenails or something equally appalling. Akaashi would normally chalk it up to Konoha’s dramatics, but even Sarukui’s heavy-lidded eyes are blown a little wider than normal in his typically emotionless face. 

Bokuto throws his head back dramatically and wails, “Aw c’mon, it’ll just be a litt-”

He cuts himself off, eyes glinting in a mixture of surprise and unbridled joy (which Akaashi is definitely  _ not _ a little intimidated by), and gapes a little at Akaashi. “Wait, did you just say yes?”

Akaashi can’t really believe it either, but Bokuto isn’t someone Akaashi can make empty promises to, so he just nods and forces his sore arms to start pushing the mop back toward the storage cabinet. 

“Sure, Bokuto-san. Let’s do it,” he concedes. 

Bokuto whoops loudly, throwing his hands into the air and accidentally dislodging the volleyball he was holding in his right hand. 

“Let’s do it!!” he echoes, sprinting toward the court. 

Konoha is too busy shooting Akaashi looks of pity to avoid the stray volleyball, and it smacks him on its way down. Akaashi stifles a smile when Bokuto yells louder than Konoha does, apologies stumbling out of his mouth as he races to assess his damage. 

Bokuto sticks Spiderman Bandaids all over Konoha’s temple while Akaashi is busy putting his mop away. Akaashi thinks it might be a bit pointless since Konoha isn’t even bleeding, and doesn’t hesitate to sharply voice his opinion when he leaves the storage room and catches Bokuto whispering to Konoha, “It’s kinda Aka-aaaaaa-ashi’s fault anyway. I just got too excited when he agreed to play with me.”

An hour later, Akaashi finds out where all of Konoha’s dramatics stem from.

Bokuto pumps his fists, the ever-reliable “Hey, hey, hey!” echoing in the lofty rafters of the empty gym after what must be his hundredth spike of the night slams into the other side of the court. He runs to retrieve the loose ball.

Akaashi is bent at the waist, sweat dripping off the ends of his hair and desperately heaving in cool breaths of air to soothe his burning lungs. His whole body is on fire, his arms and legs the most flammable tinder.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi pants. Bokuto swings to face him, the jubilant expression that’s been glued on his face since the first ball Akaashi set to him still present. “You must be terrible at math because this is  _ not _ a ‘little bit.’”

Bokuto laughs loudly, mood not even slightly dampened, and grins at Akaashi. 

“I  _ am _ terrible at math!” he declares. “But I’m the  _ best _ at volleyball!”

Akaashi isn’t quite sure why Bokuto says the entire statement as if all of it is something to be proud of, but the enthusiasm he’s radiating makes Akaashi want to be stupidly optimistic as well. He lets his retort slip out of his mind.

Bokuto ducks under the net and tosses the volleyball at Akaashi as he sets himself up across the court. Akaashi barely catches it, fumbling it against his chest. 

“One more time!” Bokuto calls for the 100th time. 

Akaashi’s limbs plead for him to stop and his sticky skin that clings to a sweat-dampened shirt begs for a shower and some self-care. If he were anywhere else other than Fukurodani and with anyone other than Bokuto Koutarou, he would’ve given in to their demands. He would’ve refused politely, locked up the gym, and gone home for a long bath. He would’ve thought, while climbing into the comfort of his blankets, how crazy Bokuto was for wanting to put in so much effort for volleyball. Maybe even held a fragment of resentment for being forced to work so hard for something he didn’t care that much about. 

But here, in the haze of Fukurodani’s gym, half-lit by the moon peeking in through the glass windows, Akaashi complies without complaint and raises his protesting arms to set up another toss. 

He didn’t really come to Fukurodani with any lofty goals for his own athletic career, but as Bokuto jumps and winds his arm back to spike the ball, Akaashi wishes he had a little more power, a little more stamina to keep up with Bokuto’s punishing pace. There isn’t a moment of Bokuto’s energy, charisma and talent that Akaashi is willing to miss, and he needs to be good enough to stand on Bokuto’s level if he insists on witnessing it all.

The ball sails through the evening, cutting through the fog of sweat and hard work, and notches perfectly into Bokuto’s palm. He slams down a cross shot that blazes across the opponent’s court and depresses into the ground only a few feet away from the net. 

Bokuto crows happily, celebrating, as he does without fail every time his spike lands inside the court. But this time, he turns to Akaashi and beams. 

“Akashi!” he yells, as if Akaashi isn’t standing ten feet away from him and already staring directly at him (where else would he be looking?). 

“It’s Akaashi,” Akaashi corrects again, wondering how Bokuto could possibly mispronounce his name so confidently, each time worse than the previous. Bokuto barrels on as if he hadn’t heard Akaashi at all. 

Your sets are the BEST!” Bokuto proclaims, his tone absolute. 

Akaashi’s breath catches in his throat (a bit problematic since he desperately needs that oxygen now) at the direct simplicity of Bokuto’s statement. He’s heard his fair share of compliments playing volleyball at Mori, but none of them have ever sounded so straightforwardly appreciative of Akaashi’s skills, or as certain of his superiority. He knows it’s objectively a lie–there are countless setters who are more technically gifted than him, but Bokuto praises him with such conviction that Akaashi can’t doubt the genuinity of his flattery; he honestly means what he says, even if everyone else disagrees. 

A rush of endorphins sweeps through Akaashi’s brain, leaving him lightheaded in its wake, and warmth blooms in his chest. He doesn’t need and has never needed validation to perform as he’s expected to, but hearing he is the best to someone, to Bokuto, makes him extraordinarily happy. 

“Ah, sure,” Akaashi responds accordingly.

“Aghh c’mon!” Bokuto throws his head back and drags his hands down his face. “Could you sound a lil more fired up? I’m complimenting you!” he complains dramatically. 

Akaashi’s cracks a smile unwillingly. He doesn’t have any extra energy to waste on being excited if he’s going to commit to practicing alongside Bokuto. 

He straightens and surprises himself by asking, “One more?”

Bokuto’s eyes light up and he cheers loudly, running to the left to get himself in position. 

“Agghhaaashi! Practice extra spikes with me?” Bokuto asks after practice the next day.

Akaashi knows about the true implications of his request this time, and understands that “extra practice” is going to reduce him into a heap of sore limbs and labored breaths. But still, he agrees. 

“Sure, Bokuto-san.”

Akaashi agrees every day Bokuto asks after that too. 

The stars are bright and the moon is high in the sky when Akaashi and Bokuto sit squished together on the tiny bus stop seat to share body heat, waiting for their ride home. May never gets too chilly in Tokyo, but they’re both covered in sweat and running hot off of practice so the chill in the air bites a little harder than it typically does. Akaashi hasn’t received his Fukurodani uniform or volleyball gear yet, so they’re both huddled under Bokuto’s volleyball jacket for warmth. 

Bokuto’s shoulders are wide and solid, and while Akaashi is pretty narrow, he isn’t exactly small either, so space is tight under their cover. They’re pressed arm to arm, and Bokuto radiates heat like a furnace inside their jacket sanctuary. Akaashi isn’t normally the type that enjoys being touched, and he should probably find being pressed against another person’s sweaty skin more repulsive than he does right now, but Bokuto is clearly the type to enjoy physical affection, humming happily under the jacket. He seems so contently oblivious to the awkwardness of being so physically familiar with someone he met just a few weeks ago, and it’s enough to make Akaashi forget about the potential hygiene hazards. 

Bokuto’s muscles shift against Akaashi’s arm as he turns to face him. 

“Aghaaaashi!” he yells, his volume, as always, unsympathetic of the fact that Akaashi is sitting right next to him. 

Akaashi grimaces, the ringing in his ears exacerbated by the atrocious mispronunciation of his name that Bokuto has resorted to calling him after Akaashi reminded him of the extra “a” for the third time. 

“Wasn’t that the  _ best _ practice we’ve had?” Bokuto states more than asks, bumping Akaashi’s shoulder. “My crosses were perfect!”

“Definitely, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi affirms, not bothering to mention that Bokuto says the same thing after  _ all  _ of their extra practices.

“No one else ever wants to do extra practice with me, ‘cause they say it’s endless and that I always go too hard,” Bokuto says matter-of-factly. Akaashi stuffs a granola bar into his mouth so he can’t inform Bokuto that he came to that conclusion  _ weeks _ ago. “But I need to keep practicing so that I can say I’m the best!”

He smiles at Akaashi and amends, “That  _ we’re _ best.”

His statement is so outrageously confident, and Akaashi should really have half a mind to remind Bokuto that there are still five aces in Japan ranked higher than him (although that’s still insanely impressive for a second year) and that Akaashi’s not even the starting setter on their  _ team _ , but he’s distracted by the happiness he feels at being included in Bokuto’s ambitions. The “we” in Bokuto’s statement might’ve meant the whole team, but somehow Akaashi gets the feeling, or maybe just allows himself to hope, that Bokuto means the two of them.

But of course, practice is a reflection of game performance, a chance to improve things that fail in the face of both loss and victory. It’s sometimes a brutal recognition of possibly  _ not _ being the best, and trying to correct the issues that hinder perfection.

Akaashi’s chest hurts as he sits on the sidelines and watches Bokuto crumble on court. The crosses they thought were unstoppable are stuffed one after another; Kawahori’s blockers have done their research, and Bokuto’s individual strength can’t overcome the power of a team that’s completely built around stopping him. 

His hair wilts, his expression shifts from frustration to desolation and his enthusiasm fades. All of it looks so inappropriate on a person who’s built to shine, but Akaashi hasn’t worked hard enough to earn his place on the court yet, and he can’t do anything except watch. 

Although he is not 100% of Fukurodani’s strength, Bokuto is their strongest player and Kawahori is too effective at shutting him down for Fukurodani to recover. The practice match ends in two sets. Fukurodani loses. 

After Kawahori leaves, Bokuto retreats under a table, his body curled smaller than Akaashi has ever seen it. The entire team is silent while cleaning up, pushing brooms across the floor and trying their best to pretend like they don’t notice Bokuto sulking. 

“Don’t worry, he gets like this. He’ll get over it,” Konoha comforts Akaashi when he catches him glancing at Bokuto. 

Behind Konoha, Komi nods in support.

Akaashi makes a noise of understanding and continues cleaning, but he’s already witnessed a few of Bokuto’s emo modes and none of them have ever incited such a negative reaction before. And despite their reassurances, both Konoha and Komi seem a little uneasy, and Akaashi notices them checking on Bokuto more often than they normally do too. 

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto’s voice cuts through the quiet from under the table, smaller and sadder than Akaashi’s ever heard him. He even pronounces Akaashi’s name correctly, and despite how irritated Akaashi pretends to be when Bokuto calls him any of his terrible nicknames, his name pronounced with the right syllables and in the right cadence sounds cold and foreign coming out of Bokuto’s mouth. 

Akaashi turns around to respond.

“Yes?”

Bokuto is looking at him from under the table, golden eyes fixed on Akaashi in the darkness. He still looks sad, but a new determination burns just a little brighter in his expression. 

“Practice spikes with me for just a little bit?” he lies, just like he’s done every day since Akaashi joined the team. 

Akaashi nods and responds, “Sure,” like he’s done every time Bokuto asks.

Spikes land a little harder than normal that night. Or maybe it’s just the uncharacteristic quiet of the gym that makes the impact so much louder. 

Bokuto doesn’t say much and celebrates even less. Akaashi is still relatively new to his idiosyncrasies, and he’s not entirely certain on how to support Bokuto in these kinds of situations or if he’s even capable of providing the kind of support Bokuto wants, whatever it is. So Akaashi simply does what he’s asked to do and puts up set after set, hoping his assistance helps Bokuto pick himself back up, even just a little. 

And Akaashi thinks, selfishly, that it does make a difference, because even in the eerie quiet, the still air and everything so contradictory to Bokuto, the root of his personality still shines through in the new angles and different timings he tries with his crosses, always looking for a way to improve.

An hour into their practice, Bokuto hits a cross shot with so much force, Akaashi feels the floor vibrate at its impact. He listens for Bokuto’s voice to ask for “One more” before putting up the next toss, but the gym is quiet. 

“Kawahori’s blockers shut down almost all my crosses today, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto tells him when he finally breaks the silence. 

It’s a statement that seems like it’s just presenting a fact without expecting an answer, but something about Bokuto’s tone, his voice somber and lost, whispers an unspoken plea for advice or guidance. 

Akaashi considers how to respond. Offering emotional support isn’t a good option for him; he’s never been great at comforting people, and doesn’t have the charisma to simply will energy or excitement into others like Bokuto does. Akaashi’s methodical, a problem solver, and confronts his issues by deconstructing them into shards until he can identify the pieces that are fixable. It’s a process that has no place or need for emotion, so identifying potential solutions has always been relatively easy for him. Suggestions on how to get past Kawahori’s blockers are probably the best he can offer Bokuto right now too. 

Akaashi replays the Kawahori match in his head. Bokuto’s crosses are already exceptionally powerful and Kawahori is adapted to blocking them, so nitpicking his cross shots for the slightest alteration probably wouldn’t change the flow of the game. Adding another weapon, however, would completely disrupt the effectiveness of their blocking and open the opportunity for Bokuto to score more points. The idea of having more than one trick up his sleeve would probably also boost Bokuto’s spirit and morale. 

“Then work on your straights, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi concludes after a second of thought.

Bokuto doesn’t respond immediately. 

The clock in the gym ticks loudly in the lull. 

Akaashi twists his fingers together and starts regretting his words.

Perhaps he was too blunt; he hadn’t meant to invalidate Bokuto’s feelings or imply that his crosses were weak, but Akaashi can see how immediately offering a solution could suggest that. Or maybe Bokuto just wanted comfort after a hard day, not his junior to tell him what to do. Akaashi didn’t even try to show him any sympathy, didn’t even offer an “I’m sorry.”  _ Maybe _ Bokuto didn’t even want Akaashi’s opinion and Akaashi just gave him something else to worry about. 

Akaashi’s brain is trying to scramble together an apology when Bokuto turns around to face him. A few spikes of his hair that were squished against the table still droop sadly, but the hope that lights up his face dissipates Akaashi’s growing storm of worry into a wave of relief. 

“You’ll help me?” Bokuto pleads (demands), his voice watery and vulnerable, but no longer melancholy. 

What a ridiculous question.

“I don’t think there’s anyone else willing to do extra practice with you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi retorts pointedly. 

Bokuto pouts and whines, “Agghhasshiieeeeee! C’mon, just tell me you’ll help.” 

Akaashi hides his smile.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, untangling his fingers.

It only takes him a millisecond to realize his mistake, but even then, it’s already too late. The words are out. 

_ It.  _ I’ll take care of  _ it. _ That’s what he intended to come out of his mouth, but where did he get the audacity (and insanity) to say what actually came out?

Akaashi blinks hard, fingers immediately slotting back together as recognition dawns on him.

A neon green post-it note stuck on a page of a book buried at the bottom of Akaashi’s school bag jeers at him in the corner of his memory. Orestes and Pylades put their plans of escaping death row on hold to emerge from  _ An Oresteia  _ and mock Akaashi together. A hot rush of embarrassment travels up Akaashi’s chest; he consented to making literature and book club a major part of his life, but he never agreed to let it interfere the way it’s doing now. 

Even if he actually intended to borrow a quote from a piece of literature, Akaashi wouldn’t have ever chosen a passage from  _ An Oresteia _ of all books. Poetry isn’t really his preferred form of literature, and he thought the plot of  _ An Oresteia _ was unnecessarily convoluted (as a lot of family affairs in Greek theatre are) and the ending was even more unsatisfactory. There was one set of dialogue in Anne Carson’s translation that he had even commented in his annotations belonged on Pinterest more than in a Greek tragedy, but maybe karma disagreed with his criticism and thought, unfortunately, that it was more appropriate coming out of his mouth right now. 

Akaashi glances covertly at Bokuto, trying to assess if his (Freudian) slip made him uncomfortable and preparing his undoubtedly embarrassing explanation in case it did, but Bokuto looks like he’s hanging onto every one of Akaashi’s words, his eyes bright and fixed on Akaashi’s face reverently. He looks stupidly happy to hear Akaashi promise his support, but the last few fragments of dejection and insecurity still hang in his eyes. 

“It’s rotten work,” Bokuto warns, uncharacteristically shy.

Akaashi restrains himself from pointing out the contradiction of Bokuto’s warning, given like he hadn’t _ just _ demanded Akaashi agree to his request. Because while Akaashi isn’t an expert at deciphering Bokuto yet, he recognizes the unusual statement said in an unusual tone for what it is: Bokuto fishing for one last compliment and one last reassurance from Akaashi to help him gather the motivation to get back onto his feet. 

Unfortunately, Akaashi also recognizes that Bokuto unintentionally continued the dialogue from  _ An Oresteia, _ word for word, and now Akaashi can’t come up with any response other than the next line in the play to say back to Bokuto. He should have plenty of inspiration for praise, given how privileged he feels to be able to play volleyball with him, but the quote swims in bold words and all caps in the front of Akaashi’s brain, and drowns out any of the other reassurances he tries to put together. A small voice of logic in his head points out that finishing the dialogue would definitely fulfill the purpose it needs to (Bokuto would probably be  _ ecstatic _ to hear it), but Akaashi refuses to give into the ludicrosity of his situation. 

However, his mouth has different ideas and finishes the quote without his permission.

“Not for me, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi gasps against his will. “Not if it’s you.”

Bokuto is silent for a few moments, staring at Akaashi, but Akaashi barely notices his gaze over the ruckus of the brawl in his brain. He doesn’t think Bokuto recognizes the quote, but a whisper in his head details to him all the embarrassment that he will indubitably experience if Bokuto does recognize it. Orestes and Pylades ridicule him in another corner of his thoughts, daring him to make fun of them in his annotations again. Akaashi looks at Bokuto desperately and begs him mentally to say anything to end his torment. 

But Bokuto’s smile just brightens to its full luminosity, his last layer of melancholy melting off just as Akaashi expected, and he slams his warm, slightly sticky body into Akaashi’s for a hug. 

“Dude, ‘Kaashi,” he yells directly into Akaashi’s ear, squeezing Akaashi’s head into his chest with the bracket of his biceps. “I’m so uncool right now but you make me sound so cool!”

Akaashi is just glad the sweat on Bokuto’s shirt has dried when his face is shoved into it. And that “cool” was not a popular vernacular in Ancient Greece and therefore nowhere in the text of  _ An Oresteia. _

“Uh huh,” he responds, patting Bokuto’s bicep to console both Bokuto and himself. “I know you’re not used to hearing it from anyone other than yourself.”

The insult takes a second to sink in. 

“Hey!” Bokuto cries, pulling back (an unintended side effect). “I’m cool!”

Akaashi gives him an unimpressed look.

“Your straights haven’t gotten any better in the last,” he checks the clock, “one and a half hours.”

Bokuto makes a dramatic noise and peels himself off of Akaashi in a hurry to retrieve a ball.

“Aghaaasheee! Gimme a good one!” he demands, tossing the volleyball to Akaashi. “We’re not going to stop until my straights are perfect, okay? You can’t back out now!”

Akaashi wouldn’t dream of it.  _ Clearly, _ he’ll do whatever is needed from him to get Bokuto back on his game. 

Although all his dramatics and displays of emotions may imply otherwise, perhaps a solution is the best way to pull Bokuto out of his depressive episodes. It gives him something to focus on and pour all his passion and energy into improving. 

Akaashi feels the full force of Bokuto’s determination at practice the next day. The rest of the team is stunned to find him so well-prepared to revise his strategy–he’d always been able to pick himself up from the dips in his mood, but the effort of figuring out what to do next was usually a step that took a little longer.

Akaashi isn’t surprised at all. Once the challenge of a new skill presented itself, Bokuto was always going to rise to meet it with all his capability. 

And of course, his passion is a dangerous virus, both potent and infectious. His energy and enthusiasm effortlessly worm their way into all the members on the team until, like Akaashi, they’ve also committed to pulling out all of their strengths and having them beat down and challenged so they can learn to improve.

Shirofuku records some of the intra-team practice matches they have and the entire team sits around the tablet to pore over replay after replay, hungry for weaknesses to reform and strengths to refine. Komi declares that he’s going to receive every blocked ball in the next match, and Washio polishes a new quick, slamming volleyballs into a barrier to help Komi practice. Komi’s arms and legs turn alarming shades of green and purple for the next week after, but in a very Bokuto-esque manner, he climbs to his feet every time a volleyball knocks him to the ground and asks for another spike. 

Bokuto and Akaashi practice straights, crosses, and combos every evening until the last bus of the night picks them up from Fukurodani, and they’re a tired heap of limbs, slumped together at the stop. 

Kawahori is probably Fukurodani’s worst matchup in the Kanto schools, Akaashi notes to Bokuto one evening as they hunch over the tablet, watching a replay of the match together on the bus ride home. Kawahori’s offense isn’t anything special, but their defense is constructed around crushing both Fukurodani’s attacks and their spirits. It was the most glaringly effective when they shut down Bokuto’s crosses the last time they played, but while watching replays of their game, Akaashi realizes they learned to read Washio’s movements and counter Sarukui’s time delay specialty effectively too. They had clearly developed techniques that were intended to completely shut down Fukurodani’s offense, and Fukurodani was powerless against it. 

“Not  _ completely _ powerless,” Bokuto complains, breath puffing against Akaashi’s cheek.

Akaashi rewinds the video a few seconds to rewatch Kawahori’s blockers jump in  _ anticipation _ of Washio’s spike rather than in response to it. He sets a mental notification to tell Washio that his jumping form is too obvious.

“Six of your cross shots were blocked in the second set,” he reminds Bokuto bluntly. “We can watch it again if you forgot.”

Bokuto sags against Akaashi’s shoulder, dropping his head lightly over Akaashi’s. 

“Oh alright, we were completely powerless,” he groans, and Akaashi feels his hair shift as Bokuto turns to continue watching the video without lifting his head. 

They’re watching one of Bokuto’s failed spikes when he suddenly exclaims, “You weren’t playing with me!” and looks at Akaashi like he’s made a groundbreaking discovery, eyes shining with excitement, “But when you set for me in the next match, we’ll beat them for sure!”

Akaashi still doesn’t quite understand the confidence behind his statement (the fact that Akaashi isn’t the starting setter hasn’t changed, first of all), but like his enthusiasm and his brilliance and his energy, Bokuto’s conviction is infectious and Akaashi is too weak to fight against its influence. 

Besides, Fukurodani isn’t the same as it was a few months ago, so maybe hoping for victory isn’t so presumptuous. 

Practice might be a reflective exercise, a revolving door of improvement, but tournaments themselves are an opportunity to flaunt perfection diligently refined through months of hard work and a hunger to improve. And this game, as Fukurodani faces Kawahori in the Kanto Regional Qualifiers, Akaashi’s fought hard enough to stand on the court alongside Bokuto as Fukurodani’s starting setter. 

The crowds are louder and the glare from the floorboards brighter on court than what Akaashi’s used to on the bench, and he fidgets uncomfortably under all the extra attention.

“The first year setter,” he hears one of Kawahori’s wing spikers remark. “Fukurodani is giving up that easily?”

But Bokuto stands next to him, where he has been for the past few months, and bathes in the luminance of the spotlight. He’s constant and familiar, a vortex for attention and adoration for the crowds as much as he is for Akaashi alone, and his presence makes Akaashi feel like he’s where he belongs.

Bokuto smiles widely at Akaashi, both rows of teeth winking in the stadium lights.

“Give ‘em to me perfectly just like you do everyday, ‘kay Akaashi?” he asks as the whistle blows.

Akaashi shuffles into position, eyes never leaving Kawahori’s server as he replies, “Of course, Bokuto-san.”

The serve arcs powerfully into Fukurodani’s court, but Konoha receives the ball perfectly in the back line. It rockets high into the air.

“Akaashi!” he hears Bokuto call for the ball, and the game begins. 

If Akaashi were to write their volleyball journey into a novel, this moment right now is indubitably the climax of the story. It’s a culmination of all the skills they’ve been collectively enhancing, and a test of all the willpower they’ve invested into perfecting their individual crafts. 

The game spirits are hot and high on both sides of the court. Kawahori’s defense is still objectively formidable, but they’ve fallen into the trap of complacency and gotten too comfortable with shutting Fukurodani down to consider how they might counter.

Fukurodani rises with a nasty vengeance. Konoha sets balls perfectly from everywhere on the court and Washio’s body is straight and still when he jumps to spike, betraying none of his intentions of where to send the ball. They’re a faster, more effective, well-oiled machine, and Kawahori is floundering trying to keep up.

Balls thunder steadily into the opponent’s court and Fukurodani has countered Kawahori so effectively that Bokuto hasn’t even had a chance to debut his new straight when they reach the first set point. 

Akaashi pants for breath, rolling his shoulder back to alleviate the tightness he’s beginning to feel in the muscle after lifting his arms so many times. But nights after nights of three-hour practices with Bokuto has made this feeling familiar to him now, and breaking under the exhaustion isn’t an option. 

The whistle blows and Kawahori’s pinch server answers the call. Tension climbs exponentially in the few seconds it takes for him to properly set himself up for the serve toss and send the ball over the net. 

The sound his palm makes at impact exposes the power behind the serve, and it comes charging at Akaashi with the strength and desperation of a last ditch attempt to keep Kawahori alive in this set. 

Akaashi instinctually squeezes his forearms together, but the serve is so powerful it knocks him back even as the ball goes up, and he topples over onto the ground. 

“Konoha-san, cover!” Akaashi calls breathlessly, scrambling to his feet. 

Konoha sprints past Akaashi and gets under the ball quickly, sending it wobbling to the left. 

Positioned there, Bokuto jumps to finish the point, his body subtly angled in the way that whispers only to Akaashi his intentions of ending the game with a straight.

The stadium lights illuminate his hair and  _ show them _ , Akaashi wills,  _ this is your stage _ .

But Akaashi’s receive was low, he knows, and Konoha was forced to toss from an inconvenient angle because of the error. The ball floats too slowly over to Bokuto and starts dropping before it can notch into the best position for his straight. Kawahori manages to assemble all three of their blockers just as Bokuto switches to a cross at the last second, and Akaashi’s heart sinks, weighed down by guilt, as he watches a remnant of their first match-up play out in front of him.

Kawahori’s blockers jump and Bokuto’s spike ricochets off the barricade, shooting a seed of despair into his eyes as he lands. 

The ball starts dropping onto their court and Akaashi’s instinct screams at him to dive for it so Fukurodani doesn’t lose this point (and Bokuto his still-fragile confidence) off of  _ his _ mistake, but he’s watched this play happen a million times at practice in the past few months and moves automatically to position himself to toss instead. He reminds himself that a point isn’t won or lost by one person, and trusts his team to compensate for his weaknesses. 

Komi’s arm shoots out, and he bumps the ball high in the air, saving it off the block.

The receive he sends to Akaashi is as easy to toss as any casual pass, and Akaashi acknowledges the challenge issued with it. Everyone else has fulfilled their responsibility, and now Akaashi needs to prove to his teammates, to his coaches, to the third-year setter he replaced, to Kawahori’s spiker who doubted him earlier in the game, and to himself that can contribute enough to deserve to be on court as the best Fukurodani has to offer. 

Akaashi runs toward the ball, and locks eyes with Bokuto. He sees a glint of fear, a leftover terror of being shot down, and gives Bokuto the hardest look he can muster. Akaashi can’t pretend to know how devastating it feels to be personally targeted and have his best efforts be shut down over and over in a game, but he needs Bokuto right now so he can continue to support him and stand by his side later. Akaashi knows Bokuto can’t hear his thoughts, but he tries his best to convey to him the same message Bokuto gave him at the beginning of the match. 

Don’t shut down. Do it perfectly, as you always do. 

Time runs out to communicate and Akaashi turns away from Bokuto to give his attention to the ball. 

Sometimes Bokuto is unpredictable, his mood dipping up and down without any calculable pattern, but Akaashi is certain that in critical moments, Bokuto will always conjure the spirit to pick himself up and take a leap of faith. Akaashi knows that other teams and commentators criticize Bokuto for being selfish and Fukurodani for enabling him, but Fukurodani only allows it because Bokuto always pays his debt by invariably meeting their demands when they need him the most.

Bokuto Koutarou is made of gold and stardust, and Fukurodani is the light that helps him shine. Brilliance is wasted if it isn’t displayed, so why shouldn’t Akaashi do everything he can to help Bokuto succeed if that’s the best way he can be brilliant too?

“Bokuto-san!” Akaashi demands, tossing the ball to Bokuto’s favorite position to hit a straight.

And as Bokuto is unpredictable to most people, he is reliable to Akaashi, even in his moods. He does like he always does and jumps to meet him halfway, perfectly. 

The straight he cuts right down the line is a shot that emanates the essence of a star player: a comet that burns a cold, glittering path deep into the opponent’s court and leaves no room for retaliation. It blows past Kawahori’s blockers easily, and Bokuto, returning a favor, shows them how it feels to be utterly powerless against its dominance. 

The whistle blows and the referee signals for the end of the set. 

Fukurodani’s crowds roar and chant Bokuto’s name, drawn into the gravitational pull of his radiance, but the court itself seems so silent Akaashi can hear himself breathe. 

Then Bokuto turns toward Akaaashi, his smile splitting his face in half, and charges at him. 

“AAAGGGHAAAASSHIIIIII!!!” he bellows as he crushes Akaashi in a hug and lifts him off his feet. “WE’RE THE BEST!”

Akaashi is surprised to learn that the smile he intends to give Bokuto in response is already plastered all over his face (he’ll work on containing it). Because even with all Bokuto’s theatrics and tendencies to make absurdly bold claims, Akaashi can’t help but agree with him at this moment. All of his own blunt logic and at times, crushing realism recognize that this victory is held up by a podium painstakingly constructed with undeterred passion, hard work and perseverance. It is the embodiment of Bokuto’s influence, and while his spikes alone might not have changed the tide of the game, the witchcraft he used to coerce all of Fukurodani into aligning their ambitions with his by simply giving it his all built the foundation for success. 

Akaashi didn’t come to Fukurodani with a lot of ambition for his own volleyball career, but he feels privileged to be here for this moment.

Fukurodani wins the match in three sets. 

Bokuto drools on Akaashi’s shoulder on the bus ride back to Fukurodani, exhausted from the game and the exuberant celebrations he insisted on performing for the crowd after every point he scored. No one denies him his rest. 

Akaashi is reviewing their recorded game on the tablet sleepily, scouring for improvement opportunities, when his brain reminds him of the rest of the passage he and Bokuto accidentally quoted from  _ An Oresteia _ the night Kawahori first shut down all of Bokuto’s spikes. 

“You won’t shrink back?”

“A friend does not shrink back.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed!
> 
> This quote is the only one that doesn't really "fit"; it really reminded me of their relationship so I wanted to use it but I can't really see Akaashi saying any of those things naturally to Bokuto. All the other quotes are way less stupidly integrated but I hope it was a good lil tidbit of humor. 
> 
> I also had a ton of trouble staying in character while I was writing this because I think Akaashi is the kind of person who thinks a ton and processes a lot of scenarios without vocalizing them but I found it really difficult to write thoughts in a quieter, more passive manner (like inner voice) because I think my personal thoughts are louder, less organized and more crude. I tried my best to write and edit it to seem like him though, and I was also aiming to make him sound a little more comfortable as the chapter went on and he got more closely acquainted with Bokuto :).
> 
> Things that I modified from canon (other than quotes):
> 
> -The city volleyball tournament was held at the city gym in the manga, but I made it at Fukurodani instead because I wanted to include a description of the environment vs Bokuto
> 
> -Ishikawa
> 
> -Akaashi's opinion on _An Oresteia_ is my opinion. I read the original _Oresteia_ trilogy because _An Oresteia_ is a translation where the author I think mixed 3 versions of the story together. It's actually pretty fun to read if you're into mythology but it's got all the weird family drama and the friendly familial homicide followed by even friendlier familial intercourse. I'm just unfortunately uncultured so I despise reading poetry because I find it unnecessarily difficult to decipher. There are also tons more legitimate reviews of both the original and the translation since it's probably ripe with literary merit of the _Antigone_ or _Oedipus_ sorts that I didn't bother to break down.
> 
> -I found this quote on Pinterest. 
> 
> Things that are ambiguously ambiguous that I assumed
> 
> -Timeline on the Kawahori match. I read the manga completely out of order (starting with all the Fukurodani scenes I could find) so I can't remember when that happened. I think Bokuto was already #4 in his second year so I'm not sure they specified which year that happened but I had it taking place in their first year. 
> 
> -Akaashi was given a recommendation to Fukurodani but it's uncertain if it's for volleyball or academics but considering it's canon he didn't have much ambition for volleyball and is in some ridiculously high college prep class I just assumed he got in for academics and made him go through "tryouts." I'm not sure if that's how Japanese schools work bc I know a lot of players can get recruited, but I think Hinata and Kageyama both needed to try out so I thought it wasn't too much of a stretch to assume
> 
> Things where I tried to incorporate some of the other behavior he shows later in the manga/anime:
> 
> \- I tried making the part about him trying to figure out what the best way to "comfort" Bokuto like the scene in the manga/anime where he analyzes the 3 different options he had for tossing to Bokuto when he's "a bit angry." I feel like he's super analytical and considers all his options before deciding on the best one, so I tried to kinda mimic that situation. 
> 
> -Akaashi with anxiety! Manga spoiler alert!! But he has a breakdown in the Mujinazaka match because he's too stressed about winning the game and his personal guilt with winning/losing points, so I tried to lay a little of the foundation for his insecurity/tendency early on so it makes sense when I write about it later.


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